Soldier of Fortune Chapter Five: Times Fly
by Johnmightyarmadillo
Summary: Uneasy sleep after surgery and a tragic turn of events lead to a day that marks the beginning of something new for Mighty. My longest chapter to-date, and one that took your criticisms into consideration.


Chapter Five

Mighty lay in the bed of the medical tent, still drowsy after surgery. The doctors had removed the bullet from his gut and stitched him up. He was still under the affects of painkillers, and drifted in and out of consciousness for a few hours. In that state, his mind jumbled together different images, some recent, others older..

_1958. He is being beaten angrily. His father is yelling at him, demanding to know if he stole money from him. Before he can finish his sentence his face has contorted into that of his drill instructor, screaming at him to climb over the fence. It's his father again, berating him for failing to get good grades and burning his flesh with a cigar. Its the drill instructor, smacking him across the face and demanding he put together his rifle faster. He smacks him again, yelling that he forgot the firing pin. It was still his drill instructor who kicked him down to the ground after he missed the target on the third day of rifle training. But it was his father who told him to go and grab him another beer or else he'd get his belt out again. _The memories became clearer as the painkillers slowly wore off, fragmented but more connected._ He was watching his parents fight, his mother storming out of the house with her bag and his father yelling after her. He watched as he called him down and yelled that it was his fault that she left, because he was a failure and a disappointment. His drill instructor was making the first rounds of the barracks the day they arrived. He called on Mighty to step out into the open, picking him arbitrarily to serve as an example to the rest of the group. He felt him a swift kick to the gut and knocked him to the ground when he doubled up in pain. He kicked him again before reminding the group that if they failed to meet the standards of the military, he would personally shove his foot up each of their asses. He walked out and let Mighty pull himself up, spitting blood onto the floor of the barracks. He spat blood onto the rug, his father standing over him as he kicked him again on the firing range and his drill instructor beat him with his belt. Again and again images of the both of them flew through his head, feelings of pain and humiliation immediately following. Something else flashed across his mind. A feeling of anger, fury and rage that made him pull himself up from the floor of the barracks. He would show them. He would hone his aim, properly assemble his rifle and stand up to both of them. He heard the report of a rifle and turned to see Charmy falling back as blood flew from his temple and neck. He was cradling his knees on the floor, both his father and drill instructor beating him as he heard Charmy scream in pain and fear for help. He wanted to get up, to run over and help his friend, but he couldn't escape their hits. He opened his eyes and saw blood pooling underneath Charmy's body, the blood flowing towards him as it mingled with the blood he was spitting out. He looked over again, unable to see the body as it had sunken into the ground and laughter echoed off the polished stone of the grave that appeared in its place. They were laughing, stopping their assault to laugh like hyenas, a cold, condescending laugh that shook him. He struggled to get up, to cover his ears to block out that laughter. It was 1957 and his mother was laying on the couch, nursing a glass of whiskey. He asked her why she was always tired and yelled with daddy. She looked at him and laughed briefly, a joyless laugh as if it wasn't even a funny question. She downed the rest of her glass and told him that it was because he had been born and ruined both of their lives. She laughed again, her laugher bitter and devoid of pity. Tears were streaming down his face as all three of them laughed the same laugh, echoing and rebounding endlessly in his head. He stood and ran as best he could, his legs bruised and sore. He felt a violent shock knock him down to the ground and he was bleeding. He had been shot in the stomach and fell before he heard the gunshot. He lay there, bleeding and broken, listening to the spectrum of laughter, insults and yelling spiraling around him. He tried to tell himself he would show them wrong, remembering how he had hit that target dead center when they began rifle training again. He tried to stop the bleeding, pull himself up. He couldn't. He was being shaken, and he looked to see whose face it was. A yellow squirrel gazed back at him and smiled, offering his hand._

Ray was shaking Mighty, trying to get him to wake up.

"John, snap out of it. You're making weird noises in your sleep, man". Ray was leaning against a crutch, standing next to Mighty's bed. As Mighty slowly opened his eyes, Ray smiled again, sighing in relief.

"Man, you were out of it for a while, Johnny. The platoon's out on training exercise, but since were were both wounded its just us around the barracks. Vector's still here, but he's been quiet for the last day or so. You feeling up to walking around?" Mighty groaned slightly, sitting up slowly, clutching at the bandages over his stitches. Ray helped him out of the bed as he stood up, legs shaking slightly.

"Damn… How long was I out?"

"About a day. You passed out not he chopper, and they were a bit bogged down for a while before they could get to you, so you slept for a while. Either way, I'm sure you're hungry. Want to go grab some chow at the mess hall?" Mighty nodded, walking off with him. He was still visibly distressed by his dream, but Ray merely assumed he was still in pain from the stitches. They made their way to the mess hall, eating quickly. They didn't speak much, Mighty focused on the images still floating in his mind and Ray trying to adjust to his temporary crutch. Mighty had just noticed the bandage on his knee and asked,

"How'd that happen, Ray?". Ray waited until he had finished his mouthful of food before answering.

"Get shot in the knee during yesterday. Vector and I were pinned down and separated from the rest of our group. We tried to make a run for it and rejoin them, and he made it across, but I took a hit to the knee. Docs say its nothing permanent, but it'll keep me out of the field for a while."

"Why aren't they sending you home, then?"

"Geez, you didn't hear? More and more people are fleeing the draft these days. They need all they can get out here, so they only send the really wounded ones back. Folks who get their legs blown off by land mines, for example. Its sickening."

"Maybe it is, but we're stuck here for at least three years."

"Don't remind me. Least Charmy…. At least he got out early." They were silent for a moment, silent tears on Ray's face as he looked down at his food, Mighty staying quiet. He finally looked up at Ray, sighing.

"It was my fault he got hit. I could't bring myself to fight back and then I saw… I saw his body hit the ground and I… I'm sorry…." Ray kept his head down, answering.

"You did what you could, John. Maybe you couldn't save him… At least you saved us." Mighty looked up as Ray smiled faintly.

"If you hadn't come in with Espio and Cody, guns blazing, I don't think we'd have gotten out of that mess. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if that stunt doesn't get you made a corporal." Mighty nodded, finishing up his meal. He waited for Ray to finish his, and the two departed the mess hall. Ray was still getting used to his crutch, so Mighty had to help him walk a few steps every now and then. They made it back to the tent, seeing Vector sitting quietly in his bunk, staring off into space. They shared a nervous glance, heading over to their own bunks. While Mighty lit a cigarette, Vector spoke, his voice shaky and quiet.

"I didn't want to have to kill him…. I didn't have a choice." Both of them turned to look at him, his hands trembling as he pulled his pistol from its holster, holding it in his lap.

"Vector, what are you doing with that…?" Ray asked nervously. Vector gave no response. Mighty stood up, wincing slightly, and made his way to approach him. Vector gripped the handle tightly and Mighty stopped. Sound seemed to vanish from the tent as the three of them were frozen in place. Vector kept looking at the pistol as Mighty tried to walk closer. Vector raised the pistol, aiming it at him, his hands still shaking.

"Vector, calm down for god's sake…"

"No! I… I can't take this shit anymore! I don't want to have to kill anyone else… I don't want to be like you, Johnny! Only a week in and you're acting like the original badass, but I know its a front! You're as fucking scared as everyone else, but you're just like Espio, you can't let that fear show, so you act like a god-damn murderer!" Mighty flinched at the words, the images of his drugged sleep adding to his nervousness. He took a step towards Vector, but stopped again as the pistol was aimed at him again. Ray looked between the two, unsure what was happening or even what to do. He spoke up.

"Vector, please, put the gun down. We can work this out. I'm sure you're right and that we're all as scared as you are, but just give us a chance to help you." Vector leveled the gun at Ray, causing him to move back in fear. Neither one had seen their friend act like this, except… Except for when the news story about the war came on. Ray realized the connection, but was unable to pass it on to Mighty, being held at gunpoint as they were.

"We don't belong here… None of us do, this isn't our country to invade! Just because they're fucking communists… I'm going back home. You guys are gonna help me get back home. We're gonna go to the helipad and steal a chopper and have the pilot fly us out of this place…" Both of them stood there, shocked at how insane Vector was sounding. They glanced at each other, trying to silently come up with a plan. Vector waved his gun at the entrance to the tent and told them to go first, as they walked out, afraid of what he was going to do. He walked after them out of the tent, his shaking hands still clutching his colt tightly. They looked around for someone to help, but all they saw was the mess hall, full of soldiers, but too far away. The latrines were close, but empty. Mighty looked up to see a watchtower with a sentry, but he knew his first reaction would be to shoot Vector on sight for endangering other soldiers. They were nearing the helipad, one of the pilots performing maintenance on a medivac chopper. Vector laughed slightly, a shaky, mad laugh that sounded like a child giggling crossed with labored breathing. He ran ahead of Mighty and Ray, as the he prepared to fire a warning shot at the pilot. Mighty watched, unable to stop, his equipment back at the tent. He looked over at Ray, who was praying quietly that Vector didn't get shot. Mighty noticed Ray had his knife sheathed on his belt. Unable to quickly think of another solution, he grabbed Ray's knife, soliciting a noise of protest from him, before he quieted, seeing what Mighty was planning. Trying to aim carefully, Mighty hurled the knife at Vector, praying that it didn't hit him in a major area. The pilot had noticed Vector and was readying his pistol, but stopped as Vector cried out, collapsing to the ground, Ray's knife lodged in his leg. Mighty and Ray ran over, Ray looking at both Mighty and Vector with a fearful look in his face. Mighty knelt down to help Vector up, ignoring the pain in his stomach as his stitches voiced their protests. Vector was panicking, reaching for his gun and crying hysterically that he wanted to go home. Mighty tried to kick his gun away, but Vector had rolled away from him, snatching up the pistol. The pilot was calling over to the mess hall, as a group of soldiers raced over to try and stop the commotion.

"Vector! Drop the gun! We can talk this out! Just let it go and come with us, man!" Mighty was holding his hands above his head, Vector kneeling on his good knee and holding all three of them at gunpoint again, his hands still shaking madly.

"No… I want to go home, John. I want to go home, but I can't. Why can't you let me go home!?" The fear and misery in his voice was audible enough to stop the soldiers inning over, watching the event unfold in silence. Vector was crying, and Mighty was trying to talk him into lowering the gun.

"I'm going home, John…. I'm… Going home." Without another word, and before anyone could stop him, he placed the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. His blood and pieces of brain splattered against the concrete of the helipad, as Mighty fell to his knees, crying, while several other soldiers took of their helmets and held them to their chests. Ray stood there, too shocked to say or do anything, silent tears streaming down his face. The pilot swore loudly, declaring he'd never seen anything that crazy, but his words disappeared into nothingness, as Mighty cried openly. For Charmy. For the men he'd killed in self preservation. For Vector. For the fact that there was three more years to go before he and the others could return home. For himself. For what his father had done. For everything. Vector had been right, he was afraid. He hated that someone as hysterical as Vector had was right. He was another name to prove wrong, and voices invaded his mind again. The voices of his father, his drill instructor, and now Vector whirled in his mind as he told himself he'd prove them wrong, again and again he said that as the words fully sank in for the first time.

It was May, 1970. Two years had gone by since Vector's death. Espio, Ray, and Mighty were entering a small village with their platoon, ordered to seize the supplies supposedly hidden by the villagers to aid the Dragon Cong. The country's guerrilla resistance had upped its efforts to drive out the Mobian forces, and had begun using underground tunnels to attack Mobian positions and vehicles. Each one of them had, by this point, risen in rank. Mighty was now a sergeant first class, the leader of his platoon, while Ray and Espio were corporals. As they walked through the village, amidst the staring eyes of women and children, hidden in their huts, the familiar report of a rifle cracked and a soldier next to Mighty fell to the ground dead. The platoon scattered, Mighty grabbing Ray and Espio as he snuck behind a pile of wood next to one of the huts. Peeking out from behind it, he was able to see a dirt bunker with the barrel of a sniper rifle poking out of it. He signaled Ray and Espio to rejoin the platoon and give the order to fan out and search for other positions. Saluting quickly, they obeyed, while he turned his attention back to the bunker. He checked himself, pulling a grenade off his back, watching the barrel of the rifle move slowly to its next target. Before the sniper could fire off his shot, Mighty had pulled the pin from the grenade and hurled it into the narrow slit of the bunker, ducking back behind the woodpile as it exploded. Clutching his M-60, he ran towards the back of the bunker, leveling his gun to see of anyone had survived. The roof had partially collapsed, a few steel girders supporting a cracked sheet of metal that once held the dirt and stone up. Three bodies lay in front of him, a fourth soldier, clutching his broken sniper rifle, and missing both legs and an arm, struggling to move towards the door. He looked up at Mighty, his light brown fur stained with blood and his uniform torn from shrapnel. His eyes had a pleading look in them, trying to silently beg for mercy. Mighty didn't take the time to consider it. He had pulled the trigger, and a quick burst hit the soldier, as he flopped to the floor of the ruined bunker. Mighty checked his body for anything of value, ammo, a grenade, maybe some food. Checking his front pockets, he pulled out a small picture, partially singed by the explosion. It showed a young girl, maybe four or five. He stared at the picture and back at the body of the soldier he had just killed. His sister, maybe, but more likely his daughter. Fighting the hide the guilt that swept over him suddenly, he tossed the picture aside and went to rejoin his platoon, the noise of gunfire in the background slowly dying as a few triumphant yells replaced them.

January, 1971. Mighty and Espio sat in the cramped office silently, as the man behind the desk looked over their papers. He nodded a few times, as Mighty wished he could light a cigarette to calm his nerves. Espio retained his calm, collected expression, though he was sweating slightly. The man behind the desk finally set down the papers and addressed them.

"Everything seems to be in order, your records are impressive, and you've already passed the physical requirement test. Congratulations, boys, you ship out to Fort Bragg in two weeks. Welcome to the Green Berets."


End file.
